The Rose
by timenspace
Summary: He came for those who were lost, even for those who were cruel.
1. Chapter 1

**Story: **The Rose  
><strong>Beta: <strong>none yet, need one :)  
><strong>Sources: <strong>Several historical ones, includes the Bible  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T at the moment because of concepts  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>If the Bible, religion, or the like is not your cup of tea, don't read this.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>This has been on my heart for sometime. It has been written, and rewritten, tweaked and drastically changed. I strive for historical accuracy but it doesn't always happen. I follow the belief that God _does _happen to love everyone, despite _everything. _God never made us "unlovable"._  
><em>

"Claudia's in one of her moods again..." Old Qadr said as she stirred the pot. "Rush along child, chop those greens..." The woman smiled, toothlessly. She was literally all bark and no bite.

Keira did so, but carefully. She certainly didn't want to chop off a finger on her first day.

"My, my." tutted another of the servants. "She's a prissy one in' t she. Where y' from?"

"Brittainia," she replied, with a lilting accent, a bit different from the rough, coarse language that the other slaves seemed to be speaking. A one word answer, like those she'd been giving all day.

She didn't like to be pried for information, she wanted to do the work assigned, and be left alone with her lonely thoughts - bitter thoughts at the parents who had sold her to pay their taxes.

"So far, how did y' come love?" Old Ber seemed like the nice one, but she was clearly the matriarch. Cross her and you'd get definatly burned for it. Or hung on a cross and left to rot, take your pick. There was one where she - used to belong.

"By boat." Two words this time. The greens were in the pot, now for the meager vegetables. The governor clearly didn't like those, there weren't many of them for as large as this feast was supposed to be. No need to tell the old gossip that she'd heard enough horror stories to know how to behave and avoid getting flogged.

"She's pretty in't she - surely you don't belong here, precious." Someone else this time, she didn't turn to see the source of the voice. She was afraid of that sentiment, but she wasn't worth to the governor "tainted" - now that she was property that really didn't matter much.

They went back to their usual gossip, every so often asking her a question which she fortunately could answer in less than three words without messing up her work.

Then something about The Great One, the god of this strange country that she didn't belong in. Something about that He had no proper name - or one that couldn't be pronounced - clicked a memory. Fortunately a happy one.

She stopped her probing of the young pig that was roasting. "What was that about He-Who-Has-No-Name?"

"Finally the mute talks!" said Qadr, the clear ruler of the conversation. "The Jews don't have a name for their god, says it's not able to be pronounced or something like that. Why do you ask? What do you know about it?" _Foreigner. _

She knew they were thinking it, though the word that described how she felt was not said aloud. She turned back to stirring the thick stew for the soldier's quarters. "Because I've heard of Him, it's a legend among the family," the reply was quiet and had to be repeated among the deaf ones.

"How do you know about the Jewish God?" The reply was one of the younger ones, somewhat scornful, challenging.

"I didn't know He was the God of this land, particularly. A long time ago, before I was even born, one of my ancestors was a courier for the Kingdom of Persia." She fought a couple of interruptions before continuing the brief tale. "He claimed that he carried a message from the king - said something about the Unnamed God being the God of the gods - this particular God had saved one of the king's men - that he didn't want to throw to the beasts but apparently had to. Something about Persian law can't be changed."_*****_

She heard mutters thanking the gods that at least the Romans didn't do such things. "Family's had a shrine to this Unnamed God ever since." She turned back to her cooking, letting them gossip and forget about her, as they had said on the slave ship that they would. The old gossips had things to add, and her story would be probably changed around to such extent that

She didn't belong here more than she belonged at "home" at this moment. She probably didn't belong anywhere as much as she wanted to. She didn't even belong to this "god" of theirs. In fact maybe she didn't believe a god of any kind existed. After all, when all those wonderful stories ended, her peasant parents still had to pay their taxes. They'd gone to town on what she thought was simply a trip to buy food. They went home; she never would. They hadn't even said goodbye they'd just given her to the guard and he'd paid them a small bag of money.

At least they wouldn't starve this winter. Small thing to be grateful for.

**A/N: In my chronology of which Keira is either unaware, or deems the detail irrelevant, the family moved from wherever they may have been within the Persian Empire, to Brittainia (which could be another story altogether, which has nothing to do with where I am trying to go.) Mostly I am trying to give you a peek into "the world" you are looking at before I throw you headlong into it. I very badly need a beta, so if you think you're up to the task, PM PLEASE?  
><strong>

**Historical Notes: "From Brittania" means anything from what's considered modern Great Britain, to Scotland or perhaps Ireland. Take your pick. I am also sorry that you are probably wondering what the first chapter really has to do with anything. It's a long story, most is a jumbled mess in my head - deciding which character history goes where. Stick with me.  
><strong>

**_*_ Daniel 6:26 & 27 **


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **The Rose  
><strong>Beta:<strong> LadyIfe  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for violence and suggestive themes  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I don't own the times, this is merely a reflection of those times. 

He didn't much care for socialization, except during Saturnalia, and the other celebrations of the solstices. He sat in his corner of the barracks, eating his dinner. Brutus was not much for talk, except when he'd gone a little heavy on the wine - which might be common during any event of the week.

He was all brass tacks and as thorny as they come.

A mouse sniffed around his shoe, looking for a crumb, and he squashed it without it letting out so much as a squeak.

Even he'd forgotten that all he knew was hate: how to do it, how to carry it out. How to make sure everyone felt it. He pushed everyone away. Unless he wanted them close to him for his own desires. It came so naturally it was like breathing to him. Hating.

His comrades sensed it and chose to often leave him alone. That was the way he liked it. Mostly why he'd been commanded here - to this godsforsaken outpost. He supposed his superiors thought he would be able to put the fear of Caesar in these stubborn rebel dogs.

This particular night, a young slave girl that walked around, pouring either water or their sour wine - whatever the soldiers preferred - caught his interest. He watched her - the way she walked, the way her lips moved when she asked them the drink of their choice, even as the thin fabric of her shift clung to her hips, her chest, that waist. When she glanced in his direction, he motioned her over.

"Water or wine?" she asked, all business.

"Wine..." he said. His eyes gave her a peculiar stare that he knew intimidated all girls - even if they might not be well-bred. He knew it was the cold ice-blue eyes that scared them the most.

He'd once heard a peasant claim he had no soul - well, maybe by the gods that was true because he rarely felt anything unless he had control over someone. Watching that tortured look on their face, their eyes filled with fear and weakness, hearing them plead for mercy.

The young slave - seemingly hypnotized - avoided direct eye contact. She'd been trained well, a slave wasn't supposed to stare directly in their masters' faces. She didn't drop the pitcher as he had hoped, it would have given him an excuse to give her a swift kick, simply to see her crumple in front of him. She poured the wine, to some of his satisfaction a bit shakily, as she could not hold the pitcher in one place.

The metal clinked hollowly against his wooden cup.

"Why are you shaking? Afraid of me?" He hissed at her - wanting to intimidate her, wanting to make it feel like the world had stopped, and she was just like the little mouse he had crushed earlier.

Only this time he wanted to hear her squeak. "I -"

"Speak up... slave." He enunciated the status, knowing it made them feel small... worthless.

He drained the cup she'd poured, considering wasting a good mouthful and spitting it in her face. He knew it stung. Of course pride worse then physical but that he cared nothing about. Wounding was his specialty. Either in words or in action. The Praetorians knew better than to cross him - even his commanding officer.

"Are you going to talk or not?"

"No... sir," she managed out. Taking her pitcher and going to the next person who wanted something to drink.

"Good. Don't speak." He sneered at her, giving her a smack on the arm. He would deal with her later when she wasn't surrounded by the hungry garrission and he had another appetite to satisfy.

He watched her walk away, the intimidated shuffle, the slight hunch of the beaten. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek, apparantly deep in thought. She would look better with a couple of bruises on her pale cheek. Under his submission. He would deal with her later - during night watch.

He had not thought about the bruises on himself in years, about the scar across his cheek, his once-broken nose. In fact it would probably take some Act of God to make him even think about his abusive father and his dead mother ever again.

**A/N: Keep in mind this chapter is mostly introspection. As you've guessed, Brutus will play a part later in this tale, but you have to know the characters first before you see them in action. In my mind Brutus looks a little like Eion Bailey, only with perhaps more scruffy features and a broken nose. ****If you have ideas for what these characters might look like please drop me a review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **The Rose  
><strong>Beta:<strong> LadyIfe  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for violence and suggestive themes  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I don't own the times, this is merely a reflection of those times.

Rosina bit her lip til it bled. She knew Brutus was eying her again and it would not be long until he took her for himself. Of course she could not do anything about such things. She was just a servant for the soldier's quarters, it was assumed she was there for purposes of their amusement.

There were sharp contrasts between him and the commander, Crispin. He'd actually given her one of those nods earlier that indicated respect. Acknowledging a slave. Unlike Brutus, who for some reason had claimed her. Of course, during Saturnalia last year he hadn't cared who had taken hold of her during the festivities.

They couldn't have the raucus they liked because of the Festival of Lights, and the risk of disturbing the peace.

She shivered in the cold night air, watching the moon rise over the city. It held a strange glow. The astrologer said there were bad omens coming this year, but they seemed so terrible he didn't seem to care to specify.

There had been enough damnable awful things that had happened in this godforsaken place. There had been riots, which made the soldiers cranky and restless. There was Someone who was all the rage. Some sorcerer who performed miracles. There were whispers he'd raised a dead girl.

Why was she thinking about him? First sight of her with the lopsided rose on her neck and she'd be surely stoned. They'd think she was some Roman whore. At least whores were paid. To them, she might have been just some dog they fed scraps and played with once in a while. No better than scum to them.

Especially to Brutus. She knew why he eyed her. She was vulnerable and haunted. Easily wounded. Haunted that her parents had been killed and she was taken for their purposes. There weren't supposed to be Jewish slaves but because her father was Greek it seemed to nullify that rule. Half-blood.

Brutus was like a wolf that thirsted blood. She was on the roof, hoping he wouldn't find her up here. She stared at the stones below. How easy it would be to just jump - she might feel a little pain, but it was nothing compared to the existance now.

She knew someone was watching her from behind. "So you found me." It sounded lame, she would probably get a slap or a kick for trying to sound humourous.

"I didn't know I was looking for you." Crispin. The commander. She knew he had a kind side. She could tell by his eyes, even though she couldn't tell what color they were because she never could see them directly. They weren't cold and lifeless.

"I thought you were someone else." There was a edge of relief to her voice. She inclined her head to look at her dirty hem and her bare feet. He was, after all, the commander. With she had heard, high honors in gallentry of battle. He deserved her respect, unlike those that demanded it without earning it.

"Do you wish I was this someone else?" He ventured out into the moonlight.

"No, sir - I do not." There was finality in her response. A rare boldness that she hardly ever showed. Enough that he guessed what was really going on. He would see the brand on her neck and know her status. It only took a few conjectures to figure out that she was avoiding her duty.

He did not comment on what he observed, instead he chose to consider the implications. "Are they cruel to you, is that why you avoid them?"

"And you care about a testimony of a slave, commander?" It was said with a hint of bitterness, though she struggled to keep her tone even. She wasn't a citizen. Her testimony to anything wasn't considered valid. Besides, in this cursed province, not many chose citizenry anyway. They thought it violated their vow to their God, to swear allegiance to their conquerors.

"Cruelty is not tolerated under my watch, who is it?" He knew she would not say. Slaves knew better than to use any soldier as a confidant. He just thought he would get maybe a clue out of her.

She did not reply at first, as he knew she would. Finally came the response. "The cruelest of wolves, target the weakest of sheep." A riddle. Riddles rarely got anyone flogged - or accused of treason.

"There you are," she heard him say. His voice was dark. He would not have a clumsy, drunken side tonight. Crispin watched her tense. "Come along, pet. You've been hiding long enough."

She walked toward him automatically as though she had no choice but to do so - and really she didn't. It was either succumb to his wishes or risk some form of torture.

Better to be alive with bruises and perhaps a stinging brand in the morning then to be impaled and flayed.

It wasn't like it hadn't happened before.

**Author's Note: So there's your intro to Rosina. I'll admit in the original she had far too big of a part, hence why there's Keira. And after Crispin's introduction I know where we will end up. ****But I don't know quite how to get there, so it might be awhile after that. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Story**: The Rose**  
>Rating<strong>: T for themes**  
>Warnings<strong>: this chapter contains quite nearly blatant non-con - so pl

Crispin watched her go, hands clasped behind his back.

Almost as if to restrain himself from stopping her. He was an officer, the commander to be exact. If this was any other province, it would be considered his duty to protect her.

But they weren't citizens.  
>They'd denied citizenship as loyalty to their God.<p>

What sort of God deserved this devotion - they'd had a history of enslavement to various conquerors, only a brief one as an independent nation.

Or so said his research.  
>He'd made it his business what their customs were - some of those under him didn't care about such things, but he knew the key to discovering how to make peace with such a riotous province was to at least attempt to relate to them.<p>

He turned back to stare down where she had been looking.  
>Had her duties gotten so terrible she had considered suicide? These people didn't believe in that sort of thing. It was ... they said one was condemned to hell for it.<p>

A Roman only trying to keep his honor would resort to such.

Common among citizens threatened with their citizenship eradicated for their crimes, making them susceptible to crucifixion.  
>She was young, barely twenty.<p>

She would have made a suitable bride.

He shook his head. Why was he entertaining such thoughts?  
>He was not bound to this province. If a new assignment came in, he was likely to leave.<p>

It made no sense.

The rose, the mark of her status - the fortress entertainment for the lonely guardsmen, mainly Syrian. The girl anyone could claim for their own.  
>Her haggard appearance told that story, but it was quite clear whose favorite she was.<p>

He hadn't liked Brutus from the first.  
>The man tended to disregard orders, also had a bottomless pit when it came to wine. He would be trouble someday - the only detail he was excellent at was the legionnaire's position, in fact he needed no assistance for such task.<p>

But that was only because the man - if he was human and not daemon - had a bloodlust as intense as his thirst for wine.

He'd be targeting someone else if Crispin took the girl away from that position. He did not intend her harm; he did have the authority to falsify what her position was in his case.

She could be a good attendant. Nimble fingers well-suited for tying the knots in his boots, in his armor.

If she wanted his attentions, she was welcome to them.

A picture of her whimpering, biting her tongue, threatened with cuts if she screamed. That was what made his feet move for the soldier's quarters.

He crossed the courtyard, acknowledging the salutes.

Those off-duty in the dimly lit quarters appeared asleep.

A bump came from a closet behind the door.  
>He put his ear to it first.<p>

"Shh, hush now... unless you want the blade again." Brutus. As he'd suspected.  
>He heard a muffled sniffle. Most likely feminine, but these days one couldn't be sure - though it was probably her considering the scene earlier.<p>

He rattled the bolted door. "Open this, on my order!"  
>He heard a sigh, exasperated. The sound of a shuffle, then the door unlocked, opening slowly.<p>

"Sorry, sir." The arm of the garment was torn away, the front of her thin shift in strips, as she clung to the minimal fabric, trying to cover her modesty.

She would have looked finely figured were it not for the signs of malnourishment. He wasn't sure if the blood on her hand was from a cut on her finger, or somewhere she was trying to keep hidden.

"You're sorry?" Brutus addressed her in a scathing tone, not bothering to cover himself. He cared not who he received his attentions from - as long as it was on his own terms. "You're the one who lured me with your -"

"Enough." Crispin held up his hand, annoyed that he had not been saluted properly, and at the entire situation in general. "She's being reassigned. If I catch you laying a hand on her again, or threatening her in any manner, I'll have you stripped of your rank and most certainly looking after the horses rather than your current assignment. Or I might have you crucified if I have enough evidence to present treason." He glared at Brutus, and the underling dropped his gaze.

"Fine. Take her - have your way with her. She's rubbish anyway. We need a new one that isn't so... tarnished."

Crispin watched her lip tremble - the insult hurt. "You will not insult her either." He griped her arm firmly - but it was not of the purpose to intimidate her, it was to intimidate the one who had treated her with reproach.

"Come along now, - on with your reassignment." He addressed her in a civil tone. "Now Legionairre," he turned to Brutus coldly. "is it not time for your guard duty? I'll have you flogged if you're at the wineskin tonight. The people are restless. Good evening." He slammed the door, pulling the girl away. Then released her.

"Come with me, we will talk. I won't hurt you. In fact, you will no longer be forced to do anything with yourself that you don't want to do."

She followed, taking slow, timid steps. "Come now, walk beside me. Or I can drag you to keep up the appearance that I've claimed you. Let them believe what they choose."

He never knew how to interact with a woman. He knew how to be fair and just, but how they thought or communicated he was completely clueless.

"You are no longer responsible for the business of what my underlings see as pleasure. It clearly does not please you, yes?"

"I - my opinion on the matter is irrelevant, sir."

"That may be in most cases, but your opinion has been asked. You do not find any pleasure in your situation."

"No, sir."

"Then you are reassigned, as I have said."  
>"But - sorry sir."<p>

"No, what was the question?"

"Have you not said you have claimed me for yourself? That sounded… official. As though I were…" she paused. "Your entertainment."

"That's for appearances and nothing more. You are my attendant. You will have a private quarter for yourself - however it is adjacent to mine. If I need you for matters pertaining to things such as a glass of wine in the night - or if the alarm is sounded, then it is your duty to help me with my armor. They are matters for an attendant. An attendant's responsibilities do not include pleasure."

"Shall I be calling you, Master then?"

"If you like," he cared not weather the name was changed. "I take no connotation into the changing of the title used."

"A question sir?"

"You may ask any questions you like," he said, turning the corner, and slowing his strides so she kept up.

"Do you not have an attendant for this?"

"I did at one time, yes." He answered the question as though the former were dead. Well, this would have probably been true if he hadn't … still, it was better for young Valerio to be hiding in the foothills of Bethany at the wealthy woman's villa then killed for his testimony.

She fell silent, but he could tell that she wanted to ask. "You want to know what happened. He needed to leave for awhile. He was given my permission to do so. It's here," he indicated the door to his quarters. One of your duties will be to open the doors in front of the quarters, or should I knock then answer."

There was relief evident as she opened said door.  
>It was dimly lit.<p>

"You may light the other lamps if you like. It is not late yet. The wicks and the trimmings are next to the window there."

He went to sit on his couch, turning to read his records. He did not want her to feel as though he were eying her or that her presence changed the room. Though in his eyes, the change was quite welcomingly significant.

Once the room was lighted, she picked up a scroll that had fallen when he had picked up the last one. She seemed unsure of weather to place it next to him or to hand it.

He held out his hand for it, still reading. "You may fix your room if you like," he handed her a key, pointing to a door across the room, a brief warm smile on his face. "It's small, and some of it is storage space, but it should do. If it should happen to be to small, please inform me of such and arrangements will be made. Don't forget the lamp, and you may keep the key. I see no reason for me to be of need of it."

He heard the gasp but pretended not to hear.

"Th-thank y-you, Master, I-"

"You didn't have your own quarters. You should be accommodated. Also reminded that rumuors will most likely be spread concerning the exact context of our relationship. This should neither concern nor alarm you. You and I know the exact truth, and that is enough." He continued back to reading, though he wasn't really seeing what was on the page.

Rosina took a step back from the commander. Her own room?

As he'd perceived, she never had her own quarters - well, when she was a very small child - before her Brother was born, she did.

Otherwise, she had always slept on the floor or on someone else's mattress. She unlocks the door with shaking fingers and shines the lamp in the darkened room. A mattress is in one corner, neither narrow or too large.  
>A lamp is at the head of the bed, a scroll, not long untouched sits next to it.<p>

She can read little, if she's lucky it's Greek - and she won't have to spend all her time puzzling what the confusing little pictures mean.

The commander's uniforms hang in a corner. One is clearly always polished for dress, but it seems to have been barely worn. As though it's just been newly minted. Medusa gapes at her mysteriously from the breastplate.

She no longer is forced to share someone's else's bed, feel the violation as someone else claims what is not theirs.

Rosina traces her finger along the snakes in Medusa's hair. The commander could. If he wanted. For some strange reason the thought doesn't terrify her as it does when she thinks of everyone else.

His hands are neither patrician, indicating he has never done work in his life, nor are they calloused from the whip handle rubbing his palms.

He is a soldier, they are firm and strong. She felt that when he gripped her arm - but there is no bruise.

He will be someone who deserves her services - should he ever ask for them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Story: **The Rose**  
>Sources: <strong>Roma, by Mary McCullough, First Light by Brock and Bodie Thoene  
><strong>Rating: T<br>Author's Note: **Humans have existed across time with attraction to the same sex. The Romans were just more blatent about it. I don't mean to force the lifestyle as "right" at you if you don't have those beliefs, it is simple fact of life, and this is meant to be as accurate of a historical representation as possible.

I would like to thank **SunRise **and **La****dyIfe **for their feedback on this chapter, this is dedicated to you two wonderful people.

"Legionairre."

"Sergeant."

"Are you - how's your health?"

Brutus frowned, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "I'm fine. Since you're so meddlesome why don't you talk to the commander about my state of health. Try and get the position that I've so clearly earned."

"That was not my intent. And I made the inquiry to you. Not our superior." The younger blonde seemed…concerned.

"You're sentimentality is most unbecoming." Brutus continued polishing his armor, something he rarely did. On occasion he rather liked being spattered with another's blood.

Quintus did not speak. He merely saluted and went off to attend to the rest of his duties. Brutus either did not remember - or perhaps more likely _chose _not to remember the events of the previous two nights. Also the innate fact that Quintus had cleaned up the sick, had warmed him as he shivered with delirious fever - had dared to touch him when everyone else wanted the brutal soldier isolated and left to die.

"Let the gods have their way with him," they'd said - confining him to separate barracks because they feared of him being sick themselves.

Quintus knew it was only because he had had far too much to drink. It was just a little more sour than normal, and he had upped his consumption. The illness he had wasn't infectious.

He'd seen the legionnaire in the throes of a nightmare when he'd brought him a jar of water. Couldn't bear to leave him. Quintus cared not for Brutus' tactics, though he had no authority to object. Brutus was neither attractive nor kind, while sober; a dangerous lion while intoxicated.

Yet delirious and sleepy there was a mysterious hint of vulnerability that no one would believe unless they saw it firsthand. There was something about this that intrigued - if not attracted - Quintus.

He hadn't been one to like Brutus' preferences for anything on two legs; nor was he one that found himself properly comfortable around women.

* * *

><p>She was threading the laces through his boots. His head was throbbing. The past two days it had gone from a dull aching to a painful, sharpness. The lights were too bright, Rosina's voice was too loud.<p>

He'd have to see the physician about it - probably pay a Greek to make an examination. He didn't need word of this getting around. It was the fourth time this week, and it was getting steadily worse.

She was a comforting thing to focus on, within the past month she had blossomed into a lovely assistant.

Always a plate of grapes on the table, his armor ready in the morning before first light. She looked a little less gaunt, though she retained her slim frame.

The Roman clothes, though plain - unfortunate to indicate her status, suited her well.

"Wine before you go, Master?" she was asking, the concern tracing its way across her features.

"I'm fine, just - the sun's a little bright is all."

"You don't look well, if you don't mind -"

"I know."

"Want me to -"

"No." He didn't mean the remark to sound so biting, but she didn't shrink.

"What about -"

"I'm _fine."_

She huffed and stood up. "I might only be your humble servant, my lord. But you will most certainly loose your command's respect if you continue about your duties looking as though you are ill. Are you ill, master? "

"Just a headache."

She hummed, as though thinking. "Take a little wine. Easy. Not so much. Would it please my master to have his head rubbed?"

He didn't quite understand what she meant. "Here," she said, going around his chair and placing her fingertips on his temples, making small, circular motions.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, sorry, master." She dropped her hands from their position.

"No. Continue. Please."

She did - making small, then slightly larger circles. It was all too relaxing, he wanted to fall asleep. She continued down, rubbing his neck. He wondered absently where she'd learned such things - although he probably didn't want to know the sensual things the girl had been educated in. Or by what methods.

"There," she said with a pat, and he startled, not realizing he had fallen asleep. "Was that of assistance?"

He was surprised to note there was magic in those hands - and a part of him wondered what else she could do, but he brushed such thoughts away. "Yes, thank you Rosina. You do have magic in -"

"It's not magic. It's simply a trick due to pulse points. Now." she smiles tightly. "Don't you have duties to attend to?"

He rushed out in a hurry and she smiled, until the door closed behind him.

Then the tears came. He didn't really _care _about her, did he? She had to be seeing things that weren't there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **The Rose  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for themes  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>a little blood? Nothing major, really.

She was rearranging the bunch of grapes on the table. Midafternoon. She'd already swept the quarters and everything was quite neat. Crispin - her master - seemed to like those things.

When she was alone, she was thinking of him by name, though she never inferred that he was anything other than her superior. She was humming a tune, was she - strangely happy?

He wasn't looking at her - not like that. Did she want him to? She still wasn't sure. Maybe if he did she'd know.

"Rosina!" He called for her, flung open the door.

He was in a hurry.

"Yes, master." Her head snapped to attention. He never came to his quarters in the middle of the day. Was something wrong?

"My armor." He was in his comfortable daily dress - the tunic. He'd gone out early, hadn't bothered to awaken her.

She went to the storage room to fetch it, knowing that action was more critical than pleasantries. Of saying yes and titles.

She made it in one trip, though it was cumbersome. She fitted the breastplate first, the effigy of Medusa gaping dully. While he held the front, she tied the back to it, making swift, careful knots.

"Is your horse saddled for you?"

"Yes." He seemed absent. As though he were thinking.

"Are you going for long?"

"Shouldn't be. Perhaps a day." he didn't elaborate, which meant she shouldn't ask. Which meant the mission was dangerous. "Do you want your cloak?" She was already taking it off it's hook, shaking out the fabric and holding it open.

"Yes, Rosina. Thank you." He shrugged it on, pulling the brown homespun over his head. Carrying the helmet under his arm.

That confirmed what he'd told her in detail - it was dangerous. It meant no questions. She smiled tightly. "You be safe, master. The gods go with you." She knew that's what they said. Even if she didn't believe they ever cared for humankind.

He hummed and nodded. "Don't wait up with the lamps too late into the night. If not tonight, then tomorrow."

She watched him go - the robe fluttering behind him. Clutching his orders in his fist. She turned to the balcony, watching him stride across the courtyard.

A young soldier held the reins. Likely the groom. The guard sergeant had already mounted. Words were exchanged, likely blessings called upon by the gods. A salute - and the commander urged his horse into a gallop as he rode out of the gate - the guard sergeant close behind.

She turned away. Why did the quarters feel so strangely empty without him? She knew the commander would not ride off unless it was vitally important.

After rearranging his records, sweeping yet again, and polishing his corona obstensinalis, she ate in the servant's kitchen that night, feeling lost.

She still made preparations in case he were to return that night, though she did not dare expect it. A kettle of water boiling in the fireplace for his feet or any other reason - if he wanted to bathe afterwards, perhaps.

She set out a single lamp, letting it flicker out into the courtyard blazing with torches. Watching the balcony. It was cold - bitterly cold - not unusual for late winter, but her breath was still frosty in the out-of-doors. She'd wrapped herself in the spare cloak - it was crimson, but it smelled like how his bed sheets did - of his horse and fresh air … and cedar. It was strangely comforting, even though her hands were numb before she went inside.

"Ho, rider!" the guard called. The guard issued a challenge and the rider called up his own. The gates opened - and though his face was obscured by the brown cloak over his head, it had to be him.

She made sure the grapes were arranged properly, the wine set out, a hearty chunk of bread.

She had the door open barely before he had lifted his fist to knock. He smiled tiredly, entering the quarters. He was spattered with blood, not likely his own, as there only seemed to be a gash on his forehead. His shoes were caked with mud - mingled with whoever's blood had spattered on him.

"Hot water, master? Bath perhaps?" She asked, handing him the cup of wine and he let her remove the armor. She would have a long job of polishing tomorrow.

"Exhausted," he said. "I trust you've been well."

"Yes, sir."

He sat on the couch wearily and she began untying his boots - which proved to be quite a chore, undoing her secure knots through the caked mud. "It - went well. Considering. We only lost one man, but they lost several. We managed to capture the rebel leader, and two of his sergeants. They'll be in the prison tomorrow."

Crispin had gone on several quests over the past two months trying to track the sicarius.

"That's good then," she said, placing his feet in the scented water, at first checking to make sure it wouldn't scald, but was quite hot just the same.

He didn't verbally acknowledge her actions, but he looked quite visibly relaxed.  
>"There's a reason we didn't kill him on the spot - though we were certainly capable of such an action. Rome has seen blood on his hands, and now she wants - or more accurately the prefect wants - blood in return. They believe strongly in their cause for independence, but they are not free to make that choice. Prefect wants a more public example. The condemnation will be quick, the evidence against him is overwhelming. If there even is a trial."<p>

"The prefect doesn't -"

"At times no. He's been warned already about his habits. His position is in jeopardy. So we can expect trouble."  
>"From the Jews?"<p>

He smiled bitterly, though there was no hate or vengence in his tone. "You can always expect trouble from them. Their leaders like to take advantage of a tumultuous situation. And it's only right - I suppose if I were one of them and they were my people I would behave the same."

Though she didn't comment on what he said, she considered his words, as she finished drying his feet with a towel. "That's a nasty cut master," she observed cautiously, wetting another towel in the fresh hot water. "Do you -"

"Yes, you may tend to it." He closed his eyes, more for purposes of respect than it stung. He never wanted her to feel as though he were staring at her. He knew she didn't like to be stared at.

"It's at least not as bad as it looks," she said, finishing her work. It was really only a scratch.

"You should see the rebel - no, never mind." he had begun his comment with jest, but cut it off.

Though she was a woman, the thought of another's blood spraying him while he attempted to kill the commander was really not that gruesome. "It was necessary. He would have killed you." More concern than she meant showed through her tone, and she turned back to gather the towels and tend to the dirtied water.

"Let Quintus attend to that in the morning. It's late."

She raised her gaze, expecting him to still be leaning back, at rest, but he was looking at her, and their eyes locked for a moment.

The first thing he noticed were her eyes. They were the color of darkened honey.

His eyes seemed more tinged with gray - before she dropped her gaze. This wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to care about someone like this. He lived a dangerous life in a dangerous province. He could be reassigned, or wind up killed by angry rebels - as he almost had been.

"Excuse me. Master." She bowed lightly, and fled to her quarters, shutting the door behind her.

He wouldn't come after her - he said that was the place he didn't go - he wouldn't interfere.

She couldn't have feelings for him.

She sat on her mattress, pulling her knees up. That's when she realized she'd forgotten the lamp, and was sitting in darkness.

**Glossary:**

_Sicarius, pl. Sicarii_ - assassin.  
><em>Corona obstensianalis<em> - an award won for bravery in battle, likely a wreath of some sort, probably me**tal.**


End file.
